


Blood Brothers

by SilverCyanide (LemonFairy)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender or Sex Swap, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonFairy/pseuds/SilverCyanide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Combeferre have always been an extra level of close, and their periods are just another part of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Finally crossposting. “I humbly request genderswap (…or sexswap I guess) fic where Combeferre’s and Enjolras’ periods are in sync before they even meet” cw: menstruation, some trans* issues.

They meet their freshman year of high school during first hour biology. It doesn’t matter they’re high schoolers finally: their teacher seats them alphabetically by last name, and with a class of only twenty, Combeferre and Enjolras end up seated at the same two person table.  It turns out they share world history and, though neither has particular interest in the subject, gym. That, plus the witty, frustrated comments Enjolras makes under her breath whenever another picture of ancient civilization comes up as completely white, makes them fast friends.

Two weeks into the school year, Combeferre heads to the nice bathroom tucked away down the music corridor. It’s perpetually empty, even Combeferre knows this, so she doesn’t mind going out of her way to get there during these dreadful six days. She’s just locked the stall door and is fishing a tampon out of her bag when the bathroom door opens. A pang of anxiety and embarrassment runs through her (though it _shouldn’t_ , she tells herself, but it’s been two years and that hasn’t changed much), but she keeps her breathing steady and tries to focus on herself and not the bathroom habits of whoever else has entered.

Still, she’s a curious and observant person by nature, and the bathroom is silent bar the breathing of two people, so she hears the zipper of a backpack, the crinkle of cheap school toilet paper. It feels invasive and shameful—she should not be thinking about another girl using the restroom—so she quickly finishes her business and goes to wash her hands. It is her hope that she can escape to lunch before the other occupant emerges, but that would be too much luck.

Combeferre recognizes her immediately: Enjolras. Combeferre immediately feels more at ease, because menstruation might make her feel awkward, but certainly less so around a friend.

To her credit, Enjolras tries to use the third sink, giving Combeferre a bit of space. But the taps won’t turn, and so she trudges to the middle sink, close enough that their elbows can bump. Combeferre notices the fine sheen of sweat on her recent friend’s face and the way her hands seem to tremble. Her brow furrows.

“Are you all right?” she asks, turning the sink off and pressing a paper towel out of the dispenser with her elbow. Enjolras nods, but is quiet, one hand maintaining a firm grip on the sink.

“Cramps,” she grunts out, and Combeferre’s eyes soften. She crouches down and fishes around in her backpack until she finds ibuprofen, then dispenses two and holds them out. Enjolras looks like she could kiss her.

“You,” she replies, tipping them back without any water, “are a life saver.”

They don’t talk about it, but for the next four days (six including the weekend) they both occupy the usually empty bathroom at the beginning of the lunch period and then walk to lunch together. Twenty nine days later, on a pleasant Saturday morning Combeferre and Enjolras have set aside to study for a biology midterm, Combeferre wakes to a familiar ache in her lower back and groans. She’s happy to find she hasn’t bled all over her bed sheets, but all Combeferre feels like doing is curling up with a heating pad and chamomile tea. Though Combeferre doesn’t want to cancel their study session, she also doesn’t want to keep it; luckily, when she checks her phone, she finds a text from Enjolras only fifteen minutes before.

_‘Hate to ask if we can reschedule studying, but stuck in the bath with disgusting cramps. Can we reschedule?’_

Combeferre smiles. Her best friend definitely doesn’t realize it, but she’s adorable.

 _‘In the same boat_ , _’_ she replies. _‘We’ll talk dates later_. _’_

Twenty nine days later, repeat. The third time is too much to be a coincidence: both of them joke, rather uncomfortably, about sharing the same cycle, but as their friendship goes on they feel a lot less tense about it. Combeferre always remembers to carry extra painkillers (because Enjolras, though passionate and organized, forgets to take care of herself), and Enjolras knows just how to sooth the irritation that bubbles up in Combeferre. It’s just another level of closeness in a perfect friendship.

It’s been over a year since the first time, when Combeferre finds Enjolras crying in the bathroom. At first she thinks it might just be from pain (Enjolras’ periods have always been painful, much worse than hers, which Combeferre is both grateful and upset for), but there’s something different, something desperate, in the way she clutches the sink like it’s the only thing left. When Combeferre places a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, she flinches away.

“D-don’t.” Her voice is cracked. She doesn’t look up. “I’m—today’s… _wrong_.” It might be the least eloquent Combeferre has ever heard her, and it’s rather frightening.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it’s completely genuine. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Enjolras shakes her head. When she says, “Leave me alone,” Combeferre does.

A couple of months later, they’ve made plans to hang out. (Which means, of course, critically analyze media their teachers have assigned as part of a petition to the school for more feminist materials.) Stress over college decisions has been eating at her since the end of sophomore year is rapidly approaching, and her period’s a day late. She doesn’t make the immediate connection until she gets to Enjolras’ home and her mother answers the door with kind, soft eyes.

“Ah, I should have expected you,” she says, though Combeferre isn’t quite sure what she means. “Upstairs, end of the hall.”

Combeferre knows where Enjolras’ room is, she’s been there multiple times, but it’s still a nice reminder as worry surges through her. She knocks on the door twice, but there is no answer, so she lets herself in.

Enjolras’ is curled up in bed, a clear lump of a person; the blankets are drawn up all the way, and only the top of wild blond hair can be seen. Combeferre settles gently on the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” she says softly, “Juliet?”

The noise Enjolras makes can only be described as a hiss. “Julian,” Enjolras says immediately. Combeferre hesitates but nods, though Enjolras cannot see.

Enjolras continues, “Fucking—cramps and bleeding and this— _should not be happening_.” Enjolras lets out a choked sort of sob. Combeferre strokes the top of her friend’s head. Enjolras’ words don’t make sense to her, but she can tell how upset her best friend is and will do her best to help.

“Okay,” Combeferre says softly. “I’m sorry. I’m—sorry this is happening. Can I do anything?” Enjolras’ head shakes, but when Combeferre shifts the covers down, Enjolras does not protest. One thin, pale hand is clutching at a pillow.

There is blood along the knuckles. Tiny little cuts. Combeferre stifles her gasp and gently traces a finger along them. Enjolras does not pull away. Combeferre glances up, and she sees the mirror across the inside of Enjolras’ closet door, smashed into little glass splinters. Her heart clenches.

“Oh sweetie,” she says, and Enjolras lets go of the pillow to curl fingers around Combeferre’s hand. Combeferre kisses them lightly, her other hand still stroking through Enjolras’ long, long hair. Enjolras’ head turns and eyes—bright, desperate eyes—roam over Combeferre’s face. There are tears across Enjolras’ cheeks, and strands of hair stuck to the pillow line across Enjolras’ cheek. Combeferre presses a kiss to her friend’s forehead, platonic and caring.

“I’m not a girl,” Enjolras whispers. Combeferre’s hand stills for just a moment, but then she continues stroking Enjolras’ hair.

“Okay,” she finally says, because she’s not sure what else to do. “That’s… all right.” She lets out a stupid, shaky laugh. “God, that sounded dumb, I’m sorry, I just—meant….” Her words aren’t coming; it’s frustrating. Enjolras smiles a little.

“Thank you.” Enjolras’ voice trembles a little bit, but is firmer than before. Combeferre returns the smile.

“If I can do anything--”

Enjolras cuts her off with an, “I know.” There is a tense moment and then—

“Julian,” Combeferre repeats, testing the new name ending. “I like it.”

Enjolras has already told his mother a few weeks before, but otherwise Combeferre is the first to know. She feels honored and validated in their friendship; though she cannot understand how Enjolras feels, she is allowed to support him, and that means a lot. And still, nothing biologically has changed: they’ve synced back up, and once a month for six days Enjolras is wound a little more tightly than he would otherwise be.

Enjolras’ always been a t-shirt and hoodies kind of kid, but now he’s always in them. His chest has always been pretty small (he and Combeferre have had plenty of conversations about it, because her breasts unfortunately get in the way), but by the beginning of junior year he’s got a binder to help with the “fucking mismatched self image” even more. Combeferre knows he runs into issues with medical professionals, roadblocks over ‘affirming gender’ and ‘puberty’ and a million other things he rants about to Combeferre on the phone, but he seems relatively happy. There are certainly uncomfortable, rude comments at school, but by the end of their junior year and certainly the beginning of their senior, no one bothers. They rule the school, so underclassmen say nothing and those in their grade know Enjolras’ ferocity with language will cut them down.

They don’t pick the same university for each other, but it is certainly a perk. People roll their eyes and lecture them on how ‘high school friendships never last’, but they deal with it. Coincidentally, as almost a graduation gift, Enjolras’ therapist and physician okay him for hormone therapy right after they’ve graduated. They don’t talk about it, but Enjolras seems a little bit brighter after that. Because his sex hasn’t legally changed, Enjolras and Combeferre end up roommates. Right after they arrive, Combeferre’s period arrives right on schedule. It’s messier than usual, because she’s never had to rely on only shared bathrooms before, but when she whines about it to Enjolras all she gets is a small, thrilled smile.

“I’m sorry,” he reassures, and that is certainly the truth, “I just—don’t have mine.” Though, stupidly, Combeferre feels a little less connected, she is happy for her friend. She is happy for him the next few months, while she is contorted at strange angles in pajamas to try and relieve back ache and ignore bloating. She comes to expect to be the only one of them in this necessary suffering, gets used to it.

So when she comes back from a long afternoon of studying for finals, Combeferre is surprised to see Enjolras curled up in bed. When Enjolras is angry, he writes. When he’s sad (though ‘sad’ never seems to be the right word), he reads. Any in between feeling results in a mix of the two. This—the defensiveness of his position—Combeferre has only seen with gender issues. She approaches carefully.

“Hey,” she says, resting a hand on what she thinks is Enjolras’ shoulder. He does not look over at her, but does not pull away from the touch either. She takes that as a good sign and carefully curls atop the covers around him. When Enjolras takes her hand and squeezes, she squeezes back.

“Some—asshole, the one at the fucking café counter, misgendered me again and I… today…” Enjolras lets out a frustrated huff. Combeferre squeezes his hand again, though cannot fully hide her confusion: it must not be pleasant, but Enjolras gets misgendered fairly often, little “miss”s and “sweetheart”s and “hun”s when they go out. There is certainly more to the story.

“What else?” she prods, careful, when it is clear Enjolras will not continue on his own. Enjolras finally looks at her, and he’s grimacing.

“It was supposed to be _gone_ ,” he says, “but it’s fucking _back_ and—today just…I can’t.”

He has started crying, which rarely happens. Combeferre pulls him toward her, and Enjolras settles his head in Combeferre’s lap, presses his face against her and cries. She strokes a hand through his hair, which he’s grown long again since he cut it all off nearly two years ago.

“I’m so sorry,” she says gently. Then, almost on instinct, “Is there anything I can do?”

Enjolras shakes his head so Combeferre, with no other way to help, holds him until he calms down and then softly suggests they spend the night in, ignoring work and watching documentaries. If she calls him ‘Julian’ more often than normal, he pretends not to notice.

When Enjolras falls asleep early that evening, his second wave of cramps finally abating, Combeferre only wishes he never has to go through this ever again. They may have started united in blood, but she would give anything for Enjolras to not have to go through this again. 


End file.
